


We Made our Peace with Weariness

by iyeetthereforeiam



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, The Mortal Instruments Series - Cassandra Clare, The Shadowhunter Chronicles - All Media Types
Genre: Attempt at Humor, Background Clary Fray/Jace Wayland, Background Simon Lewis/Isabelle Lightwood, Crossover, Family Feels, Friendship, I just want them to be happy, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Miscommunication, Multi, Not Canon Compliant - City of Fallen Angels, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Book 3: City of Glass, Post-Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, Swearing, Vampire Simon, Warnings May Change, a lil bit of trauma sprinkled in, as a plot device for comedy NOT angst, the gang is all round 18yrs old, too much angst i dont wanna deal with
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-13
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-18 05:49:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28738281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iyeetthereforeiam/pseuds/iyeetthereforeiam
Summary: “As I was saying, it will be difficult to settle in with your family but–” Harry whipped his head back to his headmaster at those words. Surely, he had misheard?“Professor,” he cut in, “you said the Dursleys were dead.” … did he sound appropriately sad about that?Probably not.Snape scoffed, but Dumbledore didn’t bother looking at him. “Yes, such a tragic event. The loss of innocent life caused by the disasters of this world will always be something to mourn.” Harry thought he heard a cracking sound. His teeth, perhaps, from how hard he was grounding his jaw. “The Lewises have kindly agreed to take you in for the summer until you graduate. They, however, know nothing about our world and I should hope it will stay that way,” Dumbledore said with a meaningful look.Who the bloody hell were the Lewises?or : Harry gets sent to stay with his relatives in New York and meets the TMI gang. Featuring Simon aiming to be the best big bro, Harry thirdwheeling, and Clary just trying to chill while everyone's pretending to be normal humans and failing miserably.
Relationships: Harry Potter & Simon Lewis, Harry Potter & Simon Lewis & Clary Fray, Harry Potter & TMI gang
Comments: 20
Kudos: 50





	1. Surprise! Your family is dead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry's angsting, Dumbledore's being shady (who's surprised tho), Hermione and Ron are the Goats.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title is from The Moon Will Sing by The Crane Wives  
> "Ten years worth of dust and neglect  
> We made our peace with weariness  
> And let it be"  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pwhec-xnWfY

Harry watched Dumbledore’s mouth move around words, glimpses of his teeth catching the candlelight and one sneaky hair seeming to inch to its way ever closer to his left nostril. The man seemed to feel all of his one hundred and twelve years of age weigh on him that day, with the lines engraved in his face digging deeper than usual and his eyes no longer shining their usual warmth and playfulness. His frown had only deepened since the conversation had begun and the man was still talking, perhaps sharing details or offering platitudes to Harry. His professor could have been confessing his undying love for the dark lord, and Harry would have been unfazed. None of it reached him. He couldn’t stop replaying the news he’d been greeted with upon entering the headmaster’s office at McGonagall’s firm but gentle urging. 

“Your family had an accident, Harry,” Dumbledore’s voice kept echoing in his head. “I’m sorry to tell you the Dursleys didn’t make it.”

The Dursleys, dead? 

What an absurd idea.  
  


Yes, Uncle Vernon may have looked a few meals away from a heart attack, and Harry had often seen Aunt Petunia sway alarmingly when standing up during her “Get skinny today!” diets, and Dudley couldn’t have told his right from his left if the words had been tattooed on his very hands, but that didn’t _mean_ anything. They couldn’t just up and die! 

Death could have knocked at Four Privet Drive and Uncle Vernon wouldn’t have bothered ungluing himself from the couch to yell, “We don’t want what you’re selling!” Aunt Petunia would have looked through the peephole and sniffed disdainfully at the audacity of anyone and anything bothering them on a fine Sunday morning. 

They’d never just _die._ What a hassle it would be!

Who would win the Most Beautiful Garden competition? Who would make sure to protect all those lovely normal people from any queerness abound? Who would keep Harry locked up?

The Dursleys couldn’t be dead. If they were–

If they were dead–

Didn’t that mean they could have died at any time? Some mugger on a backstreet could have ambushed Aunt Petunia on her way back from the shops and left her bleeding out from a stab wound. Uncle Vernon could have dozed off at the wheel after one too many drinks and totalled his car on the neighbourhood’s brick wall. Dudley could have tripped down the stairs _(Harry could’ve pushed Dudley down the stairs)_ and broke his neck. 

If the Dursleys were dead, weren’t they as normal as they’d always claimed to be? No more permanent than the rats Aunt Petunia had Harry kill, no more durable than the innumerable toys destroyed by Dudley’s tantrums, merely mortals outlasted by rock and wood, outlived by the foundation of their own home. 

They couldn’t be. 

Because if they were, _dead_ , if they were just normal people, no more special than the average human, then–

_why couldn’t Harry have protected himself from them?_

“Are you even listening, Potter?” A voice cut through the static in his head. Snape was looming a little off to the side of Dumbledore’s desk, his face set in his usual sneer reserved for dunderheads, and his dark eyes roamed Harry’s face as if to better observe how pathetic he was. 

Harry felt his lips twist automatically at the sight of his most hated professor and the confusing jumble of emotions (shock, dread, alarm, _satisfaction_ ) going through him receded under his sudden anger so quickly it left him lightheaded. Just as he was about to snap back at the man, probably with an expletive or five, Dumbledore intervened. 

“Severus,” the fossil scolded, “Mr Potter is allowed to feel distressed.” He turned back to the teenager, and his lips quirked up imperceptibly. “And I’m afraid, my boy, that cursing your professors is still not allowed.” He lowered his eyes pointedly towards Harry’s waist, whose hand had reflexively reached for his wand. 

He painstakingly unclenched each of his fingers from his wand and pressed his hands together in his lap, resolving to set Snape on fire with the force of his glare alone. 

“As I was saying, it will be difficult to settle in with your family but–” Harry whipped his head back to his headmaster at those words. Surely, he had misheard?

“Professor,” he cut in, “you said the Dursleys were _dead_.” … did he sound appropriately sad about that? 

Probably not.

Snape scoffed, but Dumbledore didn’t bother looking at him. “Yes, such a tragic event. The loss of innocent life caused by the disasters of this world will always be something to mourn.” Harry thought he heard a cracking sound. His teeth, perhaps, from how hard he was grounding his jaw. “The Lewises have kindly agreed to take you in for the summer until you graduate. They, however, know nothing about our world and I should hope it will stay that way,” Dumbledore said with a meaningful look. 

Who the bloody hell were the Lewises? Why was Harry being sent to stay with strangers who didn’t even know of magic? There had to be other options. He could stay with the Weasleys for the whole summer instead of only the last few weeks as usual. He could go on the run with Sirius and they’d be able to live together like his godfather had said. 

“It is fortunate indeed that the familial relation is close enough to allow the blood wards to function. Now, more than ever, that protection will be needed. With Voldemort having regained a body, he will turn his attention towards other matters. His efforts to eliminate you will increase, my boy.”

Apparently, Harry wasn’t as family less as he thought. Those people could make the wards work as well. 

Those people … could make the _blood_ wards work _as well._

People other than Aunt Petunia. 

Glass shattered and exploded around the room, and oh, the noise hadn’t been from his teeth after all. He stood up and slammed his hands on the headmaster’s desk, shaking from his rage. 

“Why did you leave me at the Dursleys then,” he snarled, “if I had other family! Why did no one tell me?” The thick wood started splintering under his palms as his voice rose. “It’s my family! It’s my life!” he yelled. 

Snape’s voice emerged from somewhere behind Harry where the man had moved to stand at a safe distance. “Always with the demands, Potter. The world doesn’t revolve around you,” the bat wannabe spat out. Harry whirled around to face him and, overwhelmed by his ire and all the nasty words stuck at the tip of his tongue fighting to be let out, hissed savagely at him. The dreary black robes promptly burst into flames, making their owner stumble backwards in his haste to put out the fire. 

_If there’s one good thing about today,_ Harry thought viciously, _it’s getting to barbecue Snape._

  
  
  


________________________________________________

  
  
  
  


Ron and Hermione had descended on him the moment he’d stepped in the common room, wanting to know why their Head of House had fetched him earlier. They weren’t the only curious ones, however; it seemed over half the Gryffindors were there, some poorly pretending to have a conversation as they looked at each other in silence, others not even bothering with the pretence and blatantly staring at him. It had been that way ever since the Third Task and Harry was sick of it. The whole of the student body was always watching him, whispering, but no one talked to him. Unable to stand all the eyes boring into him any longer, he’d ended up dragging his best friends throughout the school to finally settle outside, a few ways off the Whomping Willow where no one liked to sit.

He’d been ignoring Hermione’s pestering and Ron’s quips, which had devolved into bickering behind him, while he strode ahead. Now he turned around and, without bothering to try separating them, announced:

“The Dursleys are dead.”

That effectively silenced the squabble. Ron looked at him blankly for a moment before his face paled impressively and his mouth opened slightly in shock. Hermione gasped and clasped her hands. “Harry…” she trailed off seemingly wordless for once. “That’s awful. I’m so sorry,” her voice wavered a little as she edged closer and raised her arms. Harry let himself be drawn into the hug and felt Ron’s arms encircle them. The red-haired wasn’t that much taller than them both but Harry had the feeling he’d soon be shooting up to match his long limbs. 

They stood unmoving, the breeze of the Scottish Highlands and the summer sun shining down on them feeling almost wrong during such a heavy moment, and Harry felt himself go boneless surrounded by the warmth of his two favourite people in the world. They separated after a while, though Ron slung an arm over his shoulders and Hermione laced her fingers with his. 

“Let’s sit down,” Ron said, still looking a bit stunned, and practically dragging the dark-haired boy down with him as he decided to do just that without waiting for an answer. The trio sat in a circle, their knees knocking against each other’s, as each tried to figure out what to say. Harry felt perfectly content, resting outside with the great weather and distracted from how miserable he’d been feeling the past few days unable to stop thinking about the graveyard, and had no problem remaining silent. Of course, it did not last very long, as he could hardly drop such a bombshell on his friends and expect them not to ask questions. 

Hermione squeezed his hand and asked, “What happened, Harry? What did Professor Dumbledore say?”

Harry pulled his eyes away from where he’d been watching an either very brave or very stupid (probably the latter, and didn’t _that_ feel familiar?) bird try to perch on the Whomping Willow and met his friend’s gaze. He felt more real, more present, than he had in days and every point of contact with his friends was like an anchor. This was what gave him the fortitude to take a deep breath and launch into his explanations. 

“There was a gas leak on Privet Drive. An explosion. The Dursleys’ house was, er … in the middle of it. They–the explosion killed them, and two of the neighbours too. Dumbledore said it was just a regular accident, nothing to do with magic or Death Eaters.” 

Hermione opened her mouth to speak but Harry continued before she could say anything. He wasn’t sure he’d be able he could manage being interrupted at the moment and at any rate, he thought he knew what she wanted to ask about. 

“The blood wards were just for wizards, for Voldemort’s followers. It didn’t protect from anything else, so … that’s why they died. They weren’t destroyed though–the blood wards–well, not entirely. Dumbledore thinks he can repair them and make them functional if a little bit weaker.” And _this._ This was the hard part. His earlier anger concerning his supposed estranged family had burned out, leaving him feeling vaguely cold and empty, not unlike how he’d felt after dementor attacks. “The blood wards wouldn’t be as strong as with the Dursleys, because Aunt Petunia was my mum’s sister and Elaine is only her cousin, but it should work–” 

He was cut off by Ron’s squawk, “What!” He looked shocked. “You have family?” he exclaimed incredulously. 

Hermione gasped in outrage at the words and turned to him, her eyes flashing the kind of indignation that usually preceded an extremely long and brutally worded rant. “I. Cannot. Believe. You just said that!” she punctuated her reprimand with whacks of her ‘light reading’ book of the day. The witch had at least one book on her person at all times, thanks to her skill at making expanded spaces, and her definition of light reading was definitely not the same as the rest of the world. From the size of that book, the redhead would probably have a bruise on his shoulder by nighttime. “Ronald Weasley,” she fumed. “You apologize to Harry right this instant!”

Harry had turned to bury his face in Ron’s unharmed shoulder, shaking from the effort of trying to hold in his feelings. He didn’t want his friends to judge him. 

“Mate?” Ron’s voice said from above, sounding immensely uncomfortable. “I’m sorry.” Harry tightened his hold on the other’s shirt and shook his head. “I’m really sorry,” he repeated. “Harry,” Hermione called out to him uncertainly. He couldn’t let his friends be worried about something like this. He raised his head, planning to say it was fine, to just forget it, but a giggle escaped his lips against his will. Slapping a hand over his mouth, as if that could fix his mistake, with dismay turning his stomach upside down and making the grounding touch from his friends feel restraining, he sneaked a look at their faces. What if they were disgusted with him for laughing about his family being dead of all things?

Ron looked at him for a moment and then he sniggered, closing his mouth as he started chuckling quietly. The dismay changed to confusion before blooming into realization. Ron wasn’t laughing _at_ him, and he wasn’t leaving, and he wasn’t calling him a freak. The taller boy continued to laugh under his breath as he grinned at him. Harry felt an answering tug from his own lips as his earlier fear melted away and his fierce love for his friends mixed with his–almost hysteric–morbid amusement at the situation. Even Hermione, serious and concerned Hermione, was smiling now despite herself. 

Harry let himself laugh and laugh and laugh until he was choking on his own breath and his torso ached at the unfamiliar, violent reaction. His vision slowly cleared as he calmed his breathing and he rubbed a hand to his chest to relieve the soreness that had crept from his cramped stomach all the way to his shoulders. 

With the surge of emotions over, it wasn’t all that funny any more. _‘You have family?’_ Ron’s shocked outburst had echoed his own. The Boy-Who-Lived, who’d grown up with people that would sooner swallow glass than speak of their shared blood, who was famous for his dead parents, whose godfather had supposedly betrayed him; the idea of him suddenly having family had seemed hilarious.

“Yes, apparently I do,” he returned to his explanations. “My grandmother had a brother who moved to the United States. So this Elaine Lewis is my mum’s cousin and apparently they never met, but they exchanged letters when they were young. She agreed to take me in. Dumbledore is making me stay with them because they can hold up the wards.”

“You’re moving to America?” Hermione asked worriedly.

He shook his head. “Only for the summer.” 

“I’m not sure Pig can handle that kind of distance, never mind Errol,” groaned Ron.

Hermione bit her lip in thought, “There are specialized birds for regular international exchanges and the Floo, with a Ministry licence, can connect anywhere. There are also specific artefacts for communication … oh! Harry, are the Lewises muggles? We could use the phone or Internet! I can’t believe I almost _didn’t_ think of that.”

“They’re muggle and they don’t know about magic. I’m not allowed to tell them, either,” he grimaced. He didn’t particularly _want_ to tell them considering the Dursleys’ attitude towards ‘all that freaky stuff’, but he couldn’t help but feel as if he were losing something. It was stupid, he knew it was ridiculous, and yet he couldn’t entirely stop thinking about having a family with whom he could talk of magic, of Hogwarts and every wonderful thing in it. 

“Nothing?” Ron frowned. “Muggleborns are allowed to tell their family, though.”

“Since I’m only staying with them for the summer and we’ve never even met before…” he trailed off, not sure how to explain his own thoughts about the subject. “Also, Dumbledore doesn’t want to involve the American ministry, er… MACUSA. It would complicate things and he said the, uh, ‘risk is too great’ and that there could be ‘information leaks’ from sympathizers or something.”

“I … don’t think that’s legal. Dad’s always going on about bleeding MACUSA and their nutty protocols, and Percy thinks their bureaucracy’s the greatest thing since summoning charms,” he rolled his eyes. “They’re really paranoid.”

Hermione huffed, “Well, if Dumbledore decided not to involve them, he must have a good reason.” 

“Oh come off it, he can’t just send Harry packing off to sodding America,” Ron said heatedly. 

“It’s for his safety!”

Harry zoned out as the two descended into squabbling again. Surrey, being right next to London, wasn’t close to Hogwarts. It took many hours to get to Scotland and riding the train every year was the most traveling Harry had ever done. The United States were...really far. Really, _really_ far. A whole ocean away. 

What was he going to do?

Things would be very different. For one, he knew Americans drove on the wrong side of the road. For the rest, he only knew what he’d heard Aunt Petunia complain about, and he was inclined to disbelieve anything she said on principle. She approved of very little and would not hesitate to make her opinions known whether based on facts or on her own lies. She’d be _ecstatic_ to be getting rid of him and have the occasion to poison more people towards Harry–well, she would have been, except she was _dead_. 

Merlin, the whole situation felt unreal. He still wasn’t sure how he felt about their passing and he was certainly not up to figuring that out just yet. He needed to focus on the problem at hand: the Lewises. He did not know them and, though they were technically family, that meant very little in his experience. Would they be decent? Would they let him contact his friends? He wanted to believe no one could be as awful as the Dursleys; but with the Potter luck, if things could get worse, they probably would. Even his professors, who were truly nice (apart from Snape, but the bitter man was in a category of his own) weren’t really… Well, Harry trusted them to teach him to the best of their abilities but he wouldn’t rely on them for safety or trust. People, especially adults, just weren’t trustworthy. 

And now he was moving to live with strangers, abroad, where there could be no quick rescue from the Weasleys and he couldn’t use the threat of magic (not that it would be a very strong threat what with the restrictions on underage magic, but it had worked well to keep his oh so loving family in line before the Dobby incident) to be left alone because he wasn’t allowed to tell them. He wouldn’t even be able to see Sirius, despite being out of reach of the Dementors and the British Aurors because the man was apparently in some special safe house, and when Harry questioned why _he_ couldn’t stay at the supposed safe house too, he was only told he couldn’t. Why? Because. He just couldn’t. 

What a great answer. 

As unsurprised as he was by it, the dismissal from Dumbledore still stung a bit (but it was Sirius’s betrayal that truly cut deep to his heart. His godfather had promised they would live together one day and yet he was letting him be shipped away to another country. Sirius, who’d promised to protect him, _whom he’d trusted–_ ) 

Ron’s voice cut abruptly through his thoughts. “Then, you’ll be living with just your aunt?”

“First cousin once removed,” corrected Hermione. 

Ron gave him an exasperated and slightly helpless look. No doubt he was trying to change the subject and stop bickering after either losing interest or the argument.

“She has two children but only the son is staying with her. He’s a little older.”

“That’s nice. You might become friends,” Hermione said speculatively.

Harry shrugged and looked away. He wouldn’t be getting his hopes up.

“What’s his name?”

“Simon,” the bespectacled boy answered. “Simon Lewis.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bond. Bames Jond. Call the bondulance.  
> sorry i had to lmao
> 
> i'll try to have the next chapter posted by monday the 18, fingers crossed! >.<  
> 


	2. Who Is This Angry Child

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione isn't taking any bullshit and Simon is a mess.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me, late? Never!  
> (more realistically, I'll try to have a chapter up around every month but I'm a pretty slow writer for now so we'll see lmao. I'm trying to get rid of my serial procrastinator habits and..it's going,,slowly...)

The train ride had been nice. It seemed that, without even needing to consult one another, they were all of the same mind as none of them had brought up any of the darker topics that weighed on their mind. Hermione had started talking about one of the latest books she had read and the moral questions it raised about animal transfiguration, and Ron had dragged Harry into a game of chess, which had turned into hours of Harry being continuously trounced while his best friend despaired over his lacking strategic capability. 

However, it was nearing the halfway point of the trip and Hermione was very visibly, and at great cost to her composure, trying to keep herself from jumping the erumpent in the room. She didn’t want to ruin the easygoing atmosphere of the carriage, especially after how somber the past few days had been. First with Cedric’s death and Voldemort’s resurrection, then with the Dursleys’s death, and now with the move to America, Harry had been in a foul mood the whole week, justifiably so, and both Hermione and Ron hadn’t had much success in bringing him out of the morose silence he’d retreated to. 

Still, they truly needed to talk about this, even though none of them would enjoy it; it was, quite literally, a matter of life and death. 

“You look like you have something on your mind,” Harry said, peering at her. He may have been shutting them out, but it didn’t stop him from looking out for them. Of course he had noticed her. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Yes, actually, I do. I’m glad you asked.” She really was. She hadn’t been sure how to broach the subject. “With the conflicts that are to come because of You-Know-Who’s resurrection, I think it’s very important that we start preparing ourselves.” She stopped and narrowed her eyes at Ron who had yet to look up from the board. “It’s _very_ important,” she repeated, to no effect. She cleared her throat to grab his attention at the same moment Ron finally reached a conclusion and moved one of his pieces, his knight. She saw Harry kicking him under the table and Ron jerked back, looking rather miffed. His eyes were drawn to Hermione’s and he immediately straightened up under the intensity of her stare.

“Uh, yeah. Yes. You are right. Totally right,” he babbled while nodding earnestly, having absolutely no idea what he was saying. 

Hermione nodded, satisfied. He obviously hadn’t listened, but that was alright. She was just starting. “Thank you, Ron. As I was saying, we need to be ready to fight Voldemort.” The girl stumbled lightly over the name, unused to saying it, but marched on. She wouldn’t be cowed by a name; not when the man himself, if he could even be called as such, had come back to life and people would soon have to face much greater threats than his reputation. Harry, who had long since reached first name basis with the Dark Lord, was unmoved, unlike Ron who blanched at the name. “Now, it’s really… _unfortunate_ , that Harry has to leave for the summer, but,” she looked at them intently, “this gives us an opportunity!”

“... it does?”

“Yes, Harry, it does,” she repeated patiently. “America’s laws are very different. There are all these semi-autonomous isolated communities hidden throughout the United States that have very little to do with the country as it currently is. MACUSA keeps an eye on things in general but it only really controls the urban communities. They’re very isolationist, much more than here, and their dark magic laws are considerably more lax because they view it differently. I read that in ‘Modern Magical Communities: A Brief Overview’, which I found in this nice little bookshop in Dijon last summer, but the book was in french–” she was rambling now, she knew she was, except it truly had taken her a long time to translate the book without resorting to magic and the whole project had been fascinating, both the translation and the content of the book itself. She’d learned _so much_!

“Hermione,” Ron interrupted her through her speech on French rural wizarding spaces, “what’s your point? What’s the opportunity?”

“Right. Sorry,” she took a deep breath to center herself. “So. Dark magic.” She looked at Harry. “You’ll have to buy books about dark magic.”

Ron reacted immediately while Harry just raised his eyebrows, stunned. “Are you bloody mad?” he exclaimed. “You want him to–dark magic–you–just,” he sputtered. “Dark magic!” he shouted in disbelief, his face rapidly reddening. 

She’d expected this kind of reaction but she nevertheless felt a little embarrassed. It _did_ sound pretty bad. 

“Not dark _dark_ magic. Just… dark-ish,” she said, waving her hands around for emphasis. She was right, she just needed to explain! “In any case, dark arts books are age-restricted and you need a permit for the darker books, which is very curious when you consider the Dark Arts laws here–” Ron did not look convinced and Harry was frowning now. She needed to make them understand now; the history lessons could wait for later. She cut herself off this time, “Anyhow. It would probably be grey magic at most.”

“And that’s better?” Ron said incredulously. 

She sighed but Harry jumped back in the conversation before she could clarify. “Hermione, just … why, exactly, should I buy not-really-dark arts books?” He sounded genuinely puzzled.

Ron was ready for _that_ question. “You shouldn’t! There’s never a good reason, my mum said–”

“Oh, honestly Ronald,” Hermione snapped. “we’re not children anymore! We can’t not know what’s going on, not when there’s a war coming. Just think about everything we’ve already been through! And it will only get worse. Knowing your enemy is the very basis to be able to defeat him. We should–we _need_ to learn about this, about the Dark Arts and the kind of spells we may have to face one day if we are to stand a chance at winning.” She tried to curb her agitation before it messed up her hair too much. She really did not want to waste her time brushing her hair. 

The tall boy was quiet for a moment. “... we?”

And there went that attempt at calm. “Yes, _we._ As in Harry, you and I, because you are not doing this on your own,” she said to Harry before he could get any martyrish idea. She turned back to Ron. “Unless you don’t want to fight You-Know-Who,” she accused, crossing her arms. 

“No way,” he scowled. “The noseless bastard killed my uncles, almost sucked out my little sister’s soul and tried to kill my best mate multiple times.” He looked truly angry at Hermione’s remark. “Not to mention the bloody spiders,” he shuddered. 

Now she just felt bad. Of course Ron would fight too. 

“I’m just asking: are we really doing this?”

The trio looked at each other. Harry wouldn’t be saying anything, not convinced as he was that every bad thing that happened to them was somehow his fault, and neither would Ron, who needed some reassurance. This was on her.

“Yes,” she said decisively. “We’re doing this.”

  
  
  


________________________________________________

  
  
  
  


“You’re sure you’ll be alright?” Clary asked Luke, once again.

“I think I can handle spending an hour in my own car. I brought a book,” he said, showing off said-object. 

She shifted a little where she was standing in front of the driver’s car door, still hesitating. Simon sighed at his best friend’s overprotectiveness. He did understand; the events in Alicante had shaken him up too. He sometimes woke up thinking he was back in that cell, and he had taken to avoiding Chelsea and other European looking neighborhoods that reminded him too much of the Shadowhunters capital, where bodies had littered the streets and the scent of blood had been so intense it nauseated even him, a vampire. However, they were presently in the parking lot of an airport. The danger factor was rather low, especially considering airports were some of the best warded locations in the mundane world to try and stop demons from enjoying trips across the world, or interfering with planes whose accidents tended to be rather noticeable. Plus, while they weren’t exactly in a hurry, they’d probably end up turned around a few times before finding the right terminal, and Simon didn’t want to be late for his little cousin’s—or second cousin, whatever—arrival. 

Luke scrutinized Clary’s face for a minute, and then his lips quirked up minisculely. Simon was looking at his eyes, though, and he braced himself at what he saw. This was the look of a man who would unironically say ‘Hi Hungry, I’m Dad’.

“I’m a werewolf, not a dog Clary. I’ll survive an hour in a car, even with the windows closed—”

The girl turned bright red. “That’s not—”

“—I brought my little bottle of water,” he continued, “and I’m safe from the sun in here—”

Sufficiently embarrassed, she stomped away and grabbed Simon in her quest to leave hearing range. He gave a little wave to Luke as he was dragged along, which the man laughingly returned. 

“I was just being nice,” Clary grumbled.

“You were very nice,” Simon reassured her as he patted her shoulder. She didn’t seem to hear him. 

“I don’t think he’s a dog! That’s absurd.”

“Absurd,” the young man nodded along. They finally entered the airport and the noise of thousands of people packed all together in an overcrowded space hit Simon like a baseball bat to the head. He focused on Clary’s angry muttering to ignore the growing headache in his temples, which was honestly so unfair. Why was he getting headaches as a vampire? He wasn’t even alive, technically!

“—and it has nothing to do with the fact that he’s a werewolf,” she was saying. “I’m not racist. Or specist? I don’t know, but I’m not it.”

Simon frowned. That was a good question. He didn’t think being a vampire was his “race”, and saying he was of the vampire species made him feel weird. Oh crap, he wasn’t a Homo Sapien anymore, was he? What _was_ he? 

“Do you think I’m a Homo Vampirus?” he interrupted Clary. She stumbled and twisted to face him, looking shocked. She blinked a few times as they stopped in the middle of the hallway, people stepping around them and a few giving them dirty looks for it. 

“Whatever you are, Simon, you know I’ll support you.” Her hand lowered from his forearm to take his hand. “You can tell me anything, okay? If you’re exploring or questioning, or you just want to talk, about _anything_ ,” she said with a meaningful glance, “I’m here for you.” She looked very serious. 

He supposed she hadn’t gotten to the part of Shadowhunter classes where they talked about species names. It was, admittedly, a bit more urgent to learn how to get rid of demons. Perhaps he would ask some questions to Izzie or Luke, because Raphael sure wouldn’t be answering his questions anytime soon, and he and Clary could have a “Newly-Supernatural” sleepover and make fun of all the horror classics. They hadn’t had much fun lately.

“I know,” he smiled at her. Their lives had changed so much this past year and for a while, he had feared that their friendship might be ending—with all the drama from the Shadow World, Jace, Simon’s own feelings for Clary—but they had made it through. If anything, it had made their friendship stronger. “Thanks.”

Clary smiled back and eased her hold on him as they started walking again, but didn’t let go of his hand. He much prefered the warm feeling of comfort the gesture now gave him to the nervous butterfly he used to be assaulted by. 

“Are you going to tell your mom?”

“Absolutely not,” he answered before she’d even finished talking. 

“Simon… You should tell her.” The ginger traitor gave him puppy eyes. “It’s important, it’s who you are! It’s not something you can change. I’m sure she’ll accept it.”

That sounded… unlikely. Yes, his mother loved him, but the existence of vampires might be a bit too much. 

It would be too much for anyone, really. 

He shook his head, and cast his eyes around to avoid the big green eyes staring up at him. The baggage section stood in front of them, with the origin cities of the flights flashing down a giant screen. 

“It doesn’t have to be now, of course. You should wait until you’re ready. Just… consider it?”

Tokyo, Seoul, Manila, Beijing, another from Tokyo—wait, no, that was the same flight. Nothing from London.

“There are pamphlets to help with that kind of stuff. I’ll find you one.” 

Simon absentmindedly wondered who exactly was making these coming out as a vampire pamphlets. He couldn't imagine any of the stuck up warriors he’d met in Idris doing something like that. Something to ponder later, he decided; more urgently, they hadn't ended up at the right place. 

“We’re in the wrong area,” he said, glad to avoid addressing everything his best friend had just mentioned.

“Are you sure?” she forwent any further speech on coming-outs and such, and tried to look at the screen. Unfortunately, her barely over five foot frame stood no chance against the group of tall men, probably athletes of some sort, that had gathered in front of them to claim their luggage. 

“Yeah, I’m sure,” he assured her. “It must have been the one right before this one. C’mon.” He gestured behind him and they made their way back, moving slowly between all the people and suitcases.

“So…” he absolutely had to change the subject before Clary started talking about his mom again. “You and Jace?” He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively and she unsurprisingly rolled her eyes at him. “How is it going? Did you… ya’ know?”

She pinked a little but seemed overall more frustrated than flustered. “Nothing. Absolutely nothing. You’d think, after everything we’ve been through, it’d be—” she cut herself off to gesture vaguely, before letting out a despondent sigh. “We couldn’t be together for so long, and now that we finally are, all that he wants to do is train.” 

He must have looked skeptical, because she decided to explain it, _explicitly_. “We do endurance training, running, weight lifting, martial arts, sword drills, and he won’t stop making me practice flips even though I’m complete crap at it.” 

… Dare he say it? 

Well, someone had to.

“That’s probably why. You know, practice makes perfect and all?”

“That’s not the point!” she exclaimed aggravatedly. Simon raised his hands in surrender at the girl’s ire. Maybe he shouldn’t have said it, after all. “The point is,” she continued, “I want us to spend time together, as a _real_ couple, not just having fights. Literal fights, with pointy metal things.”

He did feel for her. He’d seen their relationship from the very start, and he knew how much she loved him. “Uhuh. Maybe he’s just nervous? Like you said, you guys have been around each other forever and now that there’s no barrier between you, that’s a bit scary.” 

She frowned a little, but didn’t argue. 

The new baggage section had much less people than the one they’d mistakenly gone to and this time, they were actually in the right place, as indicated by the London flight number moving down the screen.

“Well, I’ll think about it. We’ve talked enough about my pathetic love life for now,” she grimaced. “I don’t want to meet your cousin while I’m crying about Jace’s emotional distance.” He snorted. “Are you excited? You haven’t said much about it.”

“I’m just surprised, I guess? My mom never mentioned any relatives and she told me only about a week ago. I mean, I _am_ excited for sure. You know I don’t have any cousins.” Neither of them had much in the way of extended family, but it hadn’t mattered once they’d met. “He’s fourteen—”

“So a baby,” she cut in and Simon had to hide a smile at that.

“Please don’t say that in front of him.” Teenagers were _so_ touchy about their age. The shadowhunter grinned in answer. “I really want us to get along, but I don’t know what we’ll talk about. At his age…”

“At his age, we were nerds. We’re still nerds. Just talk about games,” she said, looking very unimpressed. 

“But what if he’s into,” he lowered his head a little to whisper, “sports.”

Clary sucked in a breath at the word, then shook her head. “I can’t help you there. I’m sorry.”

He gave her a pleading look, “He’s our cousin, Clary. You need to participate.”

“No, he’s not!” She shoved him to the side. “He’s yours, take some responsibility. You’re a man now, Simon. Be the man.”

“Stop enforcing the toxic masculinity, Clary. I’m so disappointed in you,” he mock-sighed in a surprisingly accurate imitation of Jocelyn’s voice. “Also, you can’t go back on a promise. I know you remember the blood pact—”

“Urgh, fine! We’ll just… chuck him at Isabelle.” He looked at her dubiously. “She’s sporty!” she defended. “And that’s only in the worst case scenario. He’s related to _you_. I can’t imagine a Lewis playing football.”

“I don’t think English people play football,” she narrowed his eyes at him, “but I see your point,” he hurried to add. Neither his mother, his sister nor him were in any way remotely close to being athletic. “Okay, so we have a plan,” he nodded to himself. “Cool, cool, cool.”

“Great, glad we got that out of the way. Can you focus now? I think the London flight has arrived.” She nodded towards the people trickling in. Simon turned his gaze to the group too, and he barely had the time to look at a few faces before a sudden realization froze him in horror. 

“Oh no,” he breathed. 

His friend looked at him, concerned. 

“... I don’t know what he looks like.” How had he not thought about this earlier? How? He was literally here to pick this stranger up, and he hadn’t thought of a way to recognize him!

“ _What?_ How do you not know what he looks like?” she said incredulously.

“We’ve never met—” Clary cut him off, “Pictures! This isn’t the 18th century, we have phones,” she dragged her hand down her face. “You should have told me. I could’ve made a cardboard sign, I have leftovers from last semester.”

“Mom told me only last night I had to come pick him up. It didn’t cross my mind.”

“God damn it,” she sighed. “How are we gonna find him, then? There are so many people…”

“I think we’ll have to ask a worker…” he trailed off hesitantly. She frowned a little, unsure what he meant. “You know, to pass a message on the intercom?”

“No. That is _so_ embarrassing, we are not doing that.”

“Do you have a better idea?”

“You could… like… sniff him out?” she looked like she regretted the words immediately, and honestly, Simon could relate. He regretted having heard that. 

“So much for not being specist.”

“I am not—”

It was probably fortunate that someone interrupted them at that moment. 

“Simon Lewis?” A middle-aged woman wearing the airport’s uniform split away from the mass of travelers and approached them, papers in hand.

Crap, had they met before? He didn’t recognize her though, and he’d never even been to an airport before!

“Uh, yes,” he said questioningly. Her name tag read Susan and he still had no idea who she was. She smiled at him, “I’m glad we were able to find you so quickly. Thank your mother for the picture for me, will you?”

We… ? Just then, Simon noticed the figure standing half hidden behind the airport worker. A boy, probably around Clary’s height, was holding a trunk and seemed engaged in a staring contest with the floor. He must have felt Simon’s gaze on him, however, because shockingly green eyes looked up to meet the vampire’s own eyes. This must have been—

“Harry, I’m gonna have to go now, alright? Don’t forget the emergency numbers I gave you and don’t be afraid to call them if you need help,” Susan told the boy, who looked very displeased but nodded mutely. “I hope you’ll enjoy your stay here. Alright! Time to go. Have fun, kids!” Not wasting any time, she began walking away with her own tiny luggage bag trailing behind her. 

They all watched her leave for a few seconds before turning back to each other. 

Clary was alternating between looking at him and Harry, probably trying to find all the ressemblances between them, Harry had gone back to his staring contest, and Simon was trying to telepathically ask his cousin to look up. 

The moment stretched uncomfortably and, needless to say, Simon did not awaken any telepathic powers. What even was the point of being a vampire?

“So,” he began, and didn’t add anything. His cousin didn’t bother looking at him and Clary focused her attention on him, raising the eyebrows of judgment, which, fair. That wasn’t the greatest start. “So,” he said again, “Harry. Is it short for anything? Hadrian, Henry, Harold…?” He was looking at him now, glaring, but didn’t say anything. “I’m Simon. Short for Simon–” ah, he really hadn’t thought this through, “–Lewis,” he finished lamely. 

The boy looked less angry and more judging by this point, and Clary seemed torn between doing the same and cringing from secondhand embarrassment. 

_Well, this was going_ great _,_ Simon sighed mentally. 

So much for being the cool older cousin. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd actually planned to write the car ride in this chapter but Simon and Clary wouldn't shut up. They'll definitely talk for real next chapter. Hope you enjoyed!

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked this, please leave a comment!! it would make my week<3


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